This past spring and summer, our family served as volunteer trail monitors for our local Audubon chapter. Our mission: To hang and observe nesting boxes to assist in the propagation of Western Bluebirds.

Western Bluebirds are cavity-nesters. They naturally build their nests in holes—which are often found in dead or dying trees, called snags. However, because of habitat destruction and the disappearance of many natural cavities, people are now filling the void by providing human-made nesting boxes.

This year, as rookie monitors, we were responsible for six boxes. Between March and July, we visited the boxes every two weeks and recorded what we saw—peeking inside to discover the appearance of those first bright blue eggs, followed by naked nestlings with wide-open beaks, feathered fledglings in a now-crowded nest and finally an empty nest that signaled our success.

In the end, we helped fledge 31 bluebirds. In total, our Audubon chapter fledged 522 Western Bluebirds and 6 Tree Swallows. Below are some highlights of a pretty awesome year.

CONVICT LAKE, CA—The three of us had tromped a short distance along the snowy road leading past the southern edge of the lake when we reached a small stretch of exposed asphalt. My husband and I stopped to remove our snowshoes while our three-year-old stomped her boots in the snow to hear it crunch.

The lake was just below us, beyond the trees lining the road. Above the trees, the craggy face of Mt. Morrison loomed. Behind it, thick snow clouds were moving in. With most of the powder-seekers flocking to Mammoth Lakes just ten miles to the north, we had this quiet scene to ourselves, not counting two Black-Billed Magpies swooping through the trees ahead of us. Although this wasn’t a banner snow year, Jack Frost had made up for the lack of precipitation with an abundance of cold. At a little before noon, it was still in the low 40s, and now that we were standing still, our daughter began to bemoan the chill. Then, somewhere beneath her moaning, a new sound began to emerge.

“Shhhh!” I said. “Do you hear that?”

We listened. The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. How to describe it? First, there were two muffled knocks that ricocheted through the air. Then it was like the plucking of a giant, heavy rubber band, only with a techno flourish at the end. If the “Lost” television series had included a snow scene, this would be it.

SANTA BARBARA, CA—Ten cars ahead of us, a Porsche collided with an SUV pulling a horse trailer up the mountain. No one was injured, but Highway 154 was now blocked in both directions. As fire trucks, paramedics, ambulances and sheriff vehicles paraded past us on the narrow two-lane highway, a steady stream of sleet bounced off the windshield and lightning crackled overhead. Somewhere up the road was our vacation home for the next two nights—a yurt overlooking Cachuma Lake. If you’ve never seen a yurt, picture a glorified tent. Instead of tent poles and nylon, the circular walls are a latticework of wooden slats covered in thick, weather-resistant fabric. Some modern yurts are quite lavish—with cozy beds, area rugs and even running water. Others are barebones, providing more head room than a tent and more protection from the elements, but little else. The yurt we’d rented for $70 a night fell into the latter category, and today’s forecast called for steady rain and 30-degree nighttime lows. But we hadn’t headed north just for the yurt. We had actually come to see the annual monarch butterfly migration, a first-time experience for our entire family.

Every year, millions of monarchs travel up to 3,000 miles to establish over-wintering colonies. East of the Rocky Mountains, the monarchs travel south to central Mexico. West of the Rockies, they head to temperate sites along the California coast and in northern Mexico, returning to the same winter roosts year after year. Only it isn’t the same butterflies that return. After several generations of monarchs mate and undergo their fascinating metamorphosis from larvae to butterflies, it is the great-grandchildren of this year’s winter visitors that will return next fall. Exactly how they navigate their way back to the locations their forefathers visited is still a mystery.

OAK GLEN, CA—Our half-bushel box was nearly filled to the brim with Rome Beauties, most of which were destined to become filling for at least a dozen apple pies. Still, my husband and daughter thought a few Red Delicious might be nice for snacking. So Martin hoisted the box on top of his head, and we headed uphill to the farthest orchard that was open. Note to self: Bring a wagon next time. The walk up the dirt road was too much for Grandma, who sat down on a bale of hay across from the pumpkin patch. When we arrived at the designated orchard, the red-apple-eaters ran ahead, while I—preferring the lighter-colored varieties—checked out the nearby Golden Delicious trees, most of which had been picked clean. Fallen apples, many with bug holes, littered the ground under each tree’s canopy, and the slightly sweet smell of decaying fruit filled the air. I gave up on finding any yellow apples to bring home and instead walked to the edge of the orchard, trying to snag a picture of a Western Bluebird, a species that seemed to be about as common as pigeons up here in Oak Glen.

Since my family has recently taken an interest in birding, I was excited to stumble across a brand-new bird book written specifically for kids and their families. A Kid's Guide to Birding was created by young author and photographer Lorenzo Rohani and his father, Michael.

The book offers a step-by-step introduction to birding—showing beginners where to find and observe birds, how to identify different species and how to attract birds to their own yards. Children will also learn what to bring on their birding adventures, discover new birding vocabulary and find important information on how to observe birds without interfering with their day-to-day survival. Accompanying the text is over 300 beautiful photos—all of which, remarkably, were taken by Lorenzo when he was between the ages of 9 and 12 years old. The skills he has crafted at such an early age are an inspiration to wildlife observers young and old.

At 144 pages and packed with information, the text is appropriate for older children who are comfortable reading chapter books and advanced nonfiction texts, as well as parents of younger children who are looking for helpful tips on getting started with family birding. And, while the text is too advanced for young children, my three-year-old does enjoy flipping through the photo-filled pages, which are much bigger and easier to browse than traditional field guides written for adults. You can find A Kid's Guide to Birding at bookstores and at KidsBirding.com. To learn more about the author, read on.

NEWPORT BEACH, CA—Our kayak floats beneath the flight path, and we watch another plane shoot skyward overhead, climbing steeply away from the John Wayne Airport. As the rumble subsides, the quiet of the estuary returns—gently lapping water, the passing screech of a willet, distant voices of paddlers carried across the water.

We let the kayak bob and drift for several seconds before dipping our paddles back into the water, moving in the direction of a small mud flat where several shore birds have gathered. While Martin steers, I pass my paddle to our daughter so I can hunt for the zoom lens stuffed into my dry sack. Through it, I see another willet rummaging its beak in the mud behind several black-necked stilts. The stilts appear to be sleeping atop their long pink legs—their painted black and white faces nestled against the feathers of their necks. Then one stilt straightens, focusing sternly in our direction, so we ease the kayak backwards and head farther into the bay.

LONG BEACH, CA—We had been out on the water for well over an hour when the call finally came over the intercom.

“We have a whale at 6 o’clock!”

Passengers scrambled to the rear of the boat, where my husband, daughter and I were lucky enough to already be stationed. Soon we saw the long blue-gray back of the largest mammal on earth gently arcing above the water’s surface, followed by a quick puff of water that shot about 30 feet into the air. With that, my two-year-old’s eyes widened and she announced, first to me and then to other passengers nearby, “I saw it! I saw the animal!”

This was no ordinary animal. Weighing up to 200 tons and measuring up to 100 feet long (think NBA basketball court), the blue whale is not only the largest mammal alive, it’s the largest animal to have ever lived—even more massive than any known species of dinosaur. Remarkably, the blue whale reaches this size by dining on tiny shrimp-like creatures called krill, which is exactly what this whale was doing today just off the coast of the Palos Verdes Peninsula.

LONG BEACH, CA—My family had just set out on the trail for an evening hike at El Dorado Park when the naturalist guiding our tour stopped to hand us an owl pellet and a pair of tweezers. Under the naturalist’s direction, the dozen of us who had signed up for the tour sat down alongside the trail and began unwrapping the foil-covered pellets. Inside, we each discovered a compact, hairy mass—the unusable portion of an owl’s carnivorous diet. Owls regurgitate the indigestible remains of rodents, birds and other prey in one neat little egg-shaped package.

The naturalist assured us that the pellets had been sanitized and were much cleaner than any you’d find in the wild, so we cautiously began pulling the compact masses apart. Our two-year-old daughter watched the proceedings with some hesitation, but she soon echoed our excitement as my husband and I took turns retrieving tiny leg bones, teeth, jawbones and even an entire skull.

Soon we were back on the trail, our daughter nestled into her stroller and the bounty of bones tucked inside an envelope in my pocket. The sky was just beginning to darken, and the pond we passed lay still and quiet except for a few circular ripples stirred by the fish.